The Non-Canon Shadow
by Ancalime1
Summary: My take on Tolkien's sequel. After the War of the Ring, an era of peace arrives to the lands west of Mordor. But when King Elessar is laid to rest, a shadow befalls the realm of Gondor; The likes of which has not been seen since the tragedy of Númenor. Cults arise under the charge of Herumor. Sacrifices are made in the name of Sauron. And the greatest threat, it seems, lies within.
1. Man ammen toltha i dann hen Amarth?

Chapter name, in English: "Who brings to us this token of darkness?"

This chapter will serve as a sort of prelude before the actual events of the story. The events of The New Shadow actually take place during King Eldarion's reign.

This story is probably best read with what little there is of "The New Shadow," a Tolkien glossary, patience for a very green writer, and a dozen glasses of wine.

Er, enjoy.

* * *

The Third Age had long since ended, and yet another shadow had fallen upon the forests of Ithilien.

Some likened it to the darkening of Mirkwood, when the Dark Lord Sauron had begun to muster his strength neath the Hill of Sorcery. Others claimed that a spot of bad weather had come to the forests, and that it would pass in due time. But most folk ignored the whole affair altogether, because the well-to-do peoples of the Kingdom of Gondor had greater things to worry about than an overcast sky—save one, perhaps.

At the age of one hundred and twenty, Prince Faramir found himself drawing near the end of his days. His beloved Éowyn had since passed many years before, having not the long-living blood of Númenor. He lived now in grief and solitude, and as a dark fog began to settle upon Ithilien, he became plagued with visions that had not entered his mind since the downfall of Sauron.

It was because of these visions that he dared not fall asleep, lest he find himself once more in the lonely tower of Ecthelion, watching helplessly as a great wave rose and swallowed the city of Minas Tirith.

His children swiftly took notice of their father's unrest, and one night as he sat looking east towards the city, they confronted him. But once Faramir had told them of his dream, they fell silent and knew not what to do. For the House of Húrin had far-seeing eyes, and the dreams that now haunted the Prince could very well be events that had yet to come. Nevertheless, their father had grown both sick and weary, and he thus died in the winter of the Shadow of Ithilien.

So came the time that Faramir's son, Lord Elboron, should take up his the office as Prince of Ithilien and the role of chief counsellor of the King. But Elboron himself had grown old, and the phantom of his father's dream still troubled his mind. For he remembered the tales of the old world, and of the Great Wave that Eru Ilúvatar had cast unto the proud island of Westernesse. Could it be that such a doom was now come to Gondor, and to the Númenóreans that dwelled within?

Troubled, he decided to hold counsel once more with his sisters Eremë and Finduilas, both of whom advised him to request an audience with Elessar and express his concerns. And so the children of Faramir rode in haste to Minas Tirith and spoke before the King and Queen of Gondor.

This was not Lord Elboron's first encounter with Aragorn Elessar. It was, however, his first interaction with him as a prince, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment at how foolish his troubles now seemed. But the King, much to his surprise, seemed to blanch at the news of the late steward's vision. He immediately called a servant to him—for what Elboron knew not, as he scurried off as quickly as he had come.

"My Lord," said Elboron with uncertainty, "May I ask what it is you intend to do?"

The King pressed a hand to his brow, seeming to forget Elboron's presence entirely. "The changing of the world," he said softly. "Akallabêth… 'she who hath fallen.' But nay, she stands on two feet once more, for the King is come at last and Gondor and Arnor are united, as in the days of old. Why then do the waves come?"

"You speak of the fall of Númenor," supplied an impatient Elboron. "Lord, my sisters and I fear that the visions our dear father had are… premonitory. Of course, night oft plays tricks on one's mind—they could very well be just dreams—but if not, suppose you that Prince Faramir foresaw a second doom come to our people, to the descendants of Westernesse?"

The King did not reply. Rather, he stooped low in his throne, looking much like an old, withered tree. Finally, he said in a hoarse voice, "I know not, Lord Elboron. Yes, your House has long been blessed with the gift of foresight. However, I know not why the waves should come to Minas Tirith. For what have we done to offend the Valar, and Eru Ilúvatar himself?"

"Time may yet reveal itself to us," said Elboron quietly. "Dark deeds may yet be committed, but from whose hand remains to be seen." Then, seeing the look of terror on his sire's face, he added, "Do not fear, my lord. My kinswomen and I have always been true to the High King Aragorn Elessar, and so we intend to be for the rest of our days. For you, my lord, carry the memory of the Faithful, those who would not forsake the Valar nor the Eldar. For this, you have our allegiance."

For a fleeting moment, King Elessar looked to be stricken with speechlessness. But soon after he gave Elboron a warm smile and said, "You carry the wisdom of your father, Elboron. I am blessed to have you as my steward."

In spite of himself, Elboron felt his face flush at this unexpected praise. "Thank you, Sire," he murmured.

The King closed his eyes. "As for the vision, I shall take your advice and wait for time's answer. For I believe our people to be Faithful still, but I also do not wish to bet against fate. Thank you again, Lord Elboron. You are free to leave."

Elboron bowed before King Elessar and departed the chamber. In the courtyard he met with Eremё and Finduilas, who demanded to hear the King's word at once. "Steady on, my sisters," said Elboron. "Vigilant will the Lords of Gondor and Arnor should trouble begin to brew within our kingdom. But for now, all is at peace." And they thus departed the courtyard of stone and set a course once more for home.

Though no one had spoken it, the three children of Faramir knew that their hearts would not rest in this supposed time of peace, and they dreaded to return to the shadow-covered Ithilien.

King Elessar too felt a great foreboding within his heart, and slowly he rose from his throne and ascended the Tower of Ecthelion, where the servant he had sent for earlier stood waiting for him.

"The chamber is ready, Sire," said the servant. "The door is open, and the stone awaits you within." He bowed hastily before retreating back down the steps of the tower.

The King drew a deep breath before passing beyond the door and into the chamber. Rarely did he visit the uppermost room of the tower, for its black marble interior seemed to him cold and uninviting. Once (though he refused to think much of it after) he thought he espied its former master, Lord Denethor, wandering silently through its depths and wielding once more the palantír of Minas Tirith.

The stone in question now sat but one fathom away. It was seated upon a black pedestal, and was wreathed in a thick dark cloth. In its younger days, it was better known as the Anor-Stone; but after the passing of Denethor, few now could look into and see anything other than a pair of flaming hands.

The King shuddered in spite of himself, and approached the stone warily, as if the old steward were waiting for him somewhere within the chamber. Pushing the thought away, he stripped the palantír of its cloth and, clasping it between his hands, he allowed his mind to plummet into its depths.

He found himself standing in the Tower of Ecthelion, in a body that was not his own. _Lord Faramir,_ he thought immediately. _This is what he saw._

The sky that stretched before him was a bright yellow, the same sickly hue that colors a festering wound. The Pelennor Fields, which were once dotted with farms and wain-roads, sat brown and lifeless before the desolate walls of Mindolluin. Everything was still, just as the moment before daybreak when the world holds its breath.

He could not see the waves at first. They seemed to him like a dark sheet folding its way over the land, steadily climbing higher and higher until the black waves seemed to crash into the sky.

He would flee—indeed, flee he tried—but he remember with dread that he wore the legs of a dead man, of Faramir long passed. And so he stood in the Tower of Ecthelion, helpless as the Great Wave rose above the citadel….

A flash of light, and he was Aragorn once more. To his wonder, his hands still clasped the palantír, drenched with sweat as they were. He sighed heavily and allowed his forehead to rest atop the fiery globe, feeling at once very old and very tired. His stewards, father and son, had been in the right: Certain doom was come to Gondor, just as it had in the days of old. Closing his eyes he wondered, _How many more trials have I to endure before I go to the Halls of Mandos?_

* * *

Whoa. I forgot how weird this format was.

Anywho, that was a sort of introductory-prologue-type... thing. Meaning that there are more chapters to come (hopefully), and with that, a batch of new heroes. In the meantime I ask you to bear with me, as it takes a rather long time for me to get my thoughts out.


	2. Boe cuil ban firitha

Chapter name, in English: "All life is doomed to fade"

Yep, the first chapter pretty much reads like a teenager's attempt to recreate _The Silmarillion._ Heads up, this chapter isn't gonna be too big of an improvement (in fact, it's about to get extremely confusing what with our heroine entering the floor). Just... bear with me, guys.

WARNING: There's a brief bit of child-inflicted violence at the end. Nothing too heavy, but better safe than sorry.

ALSO: I'm using some Sindarin etymology here: "Rhoneth" means "wild girl," and "Tithessel" means "tiny girl," because real names are stupid.

* * *

A year had passed, but King Elessar told no one of what he had seen in the palantír. Rather, he thought it best to take up this burden alone, and leave it out of the day-to-day troubles of his subjects. Too late would he realize what a mistake this was, and death found him in the frosts of early winter.

Grief engulfed the city of Minas Tirith. The peoples of Gondor had somehow convinced themselves that their King had conquered death, just as he had conquered the evil in the East. But no great feat or deed could cancel his mortality, and he went to the Halls of Mandos against the wishes of his subjects.

Tension began to boil in the years to come. Arwen had departed the great city, and Prince Elboron passed not long after. Eldarion, son of Aragorn, wed an Easterling woman named Hendunare, a marriage which many disapproved of due to Gondor's unpleasant history with the land of Rhûn. For some, the suspicions against King Eldarion's wife were confirmed: the first child she birthed did not breathe, and the second child fell ill and died weeks later. Many called her wicked and cursed her name, and some even claimed that she would undo the newly-made line of kings.

The greatest tragedy, however, was still to come.

In the early spring, the Lady Hendunare bore yet another child. And much to her and the King's joy, the newborn was healthy and strong.

She was named Ivorsel, which is "crystal maiden" in the Sindarin tongue. She was the spitting image of her mother, with dark amber skin and thick black hair. Yet even as a child, she carried all the grace and pride of the early Númenoreans, and the city of Minas Tirith rejoiced at the arrival of the new heir.

Ivorsel was a gleeful child, and mischievous to say in the least. She whirled about the halls of the Seventh Circle, panting and laughing as she escaped the servants who pursued her. She was an adventurous young girl, often eluding her caretakers when she became restless. To her nurses' dismay, she never failed to abandon her studies more than once a week, or spoil some new garment from playing in the gardens. or often abandon her nurses when it was time to study, Even more horrifying was the fact that she had become quite good at climbing by the age of five, and so it was that she learned to enter the other circles without a password.

However, each adventure she embarked on always ended with a massive scolding, primarily from King Eldarion himself. And while this would daunt even the stoutest of soldiers, the King's daughter would not be fazed. There was one person that would dare defy Eldarion son of Aragorn, and that was Ivorsel.

"Well? Why not run and climb? The Valar gave me two arms and two legs," reasoned the tiny child.

This was one duel the King was not sure he could win. Pressing a hand to his brow he said, "Daughter of mine, you are to be Queen of Gondor one day. Queens do not run and climb."

Eldarion knew this would not satisfy Ivorsel, and he grimaced when Ivorsel said, "I do not want to be a Queen. I shall be a ranger, like Auntie Leonis and Auntie Gilraen." And then her eyes brightened. "Aragorn! He was a ranger _and_ a king." She puffed out her chest heroically. "Father, I shall be a ranger-queen," she announced.

"Very well," sighed Eldarion. "A ranger-queen it is. Nonetheless, your current, er, _ranger-_ king commands you to cease all running and climbing."

"You're not a ranger," sniffed Ivorsel.

"Neither are you, _Rhoneth_ ," said Eldarion with a slight smile. "Rangers have long legs, or so I am told."

"Father!"

Eldarion gave her a look of mock-solemnity. "It is a hard truth, I know."

Ivorsel crossed her arms and displayed her most impressive pout yet. Then a mischievous gleam lit up her eye, and she took off. "Race you back to the throne room!" She called over her shoulder.

Eldarion sighed in resignation before allowing a small smile to grace his lips. He dusted off his tunic and prepared to give chase.

:::

Every Orbelain (that is, the last day of the Gondorian week) held a custom that brought the King and his sisters to Rath Dínen to pay their respects to the late Elessar, and all the previous rulers of Gondor. Young Ivorsel was supposed to accompany them, but she eventually decided that she had more important errands to attend to. And so off she crept in the early morning of Orbelain, quick and silent as a shadow. Indeed, she would have escaped unnoticed, had one of the more vigilant servants been absent.

"And where might you be headed, _Tithessel_?" The question made Ivorsel jump, and she spun to see the servant leaning against one of the stone pillars. Even in the darkness of the hall she could see that the man was very old, his hair and beard flecked with silver splinters. He wore the plain garb of a servant, but he was someone Ivorsel failed to recognize.

"Out for a walk," said Ivorsel, edging towards the door. "I shan't be gone long."

"It is not yet dawn, little majesty. I cannot permit you to go out alone."

Ivorsel bit her lip. "Perhaps… you could come with me?" she suggested.

The servant tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps I could," he said at last. "Where were you headed? Or rather, where do you wish to go?"

Ivorsel hesitated. Now that she had found a willing companion, she realized that she could go virtually anywhere in the citadel. A million possibilities welled up in her mind, from the flower markets in the fourth ring, to the stables in the first ring. And then a new, more tantalizing thought entered her mind: perhaps they could even go _outside_ the city, onward to the fields of the Pelennor… No, he would never agree to that. Heaving a sigh, she said at last, "I just want to go out to the courtyard, I think."

The servant looked almost as puzzled as she felt, but he eventually nodded his consent. "The courtyard it is. Come, let us find you a cloak."

The two crept up the stairs to the servants' quarters and entered into a plain room that contained little more than a cot and a kist. The servant closed the door, rummaged around inside the kist, and produced two cloaks minutes later.

"It's a little big," said Ivorsel, who was attempting to place the hood about her shoulders. Behind her, the cloak trailed across the floor like a bridal train.

"My apologies, _Tithessel_. It has been a long time since I was your age."

Ivorsel pondered this for a moment, and then realized she did not yet know the name of her companion. "I don't think I've met you before. What do they call you?"

The servant laughed. "Your forgiveness again, little lady. My name is Nethanar—I served the King Elessar when I was a lad, and I now wait upon your father, King Eldarion."

Ivorsel looked at him suspiciously. "You won't _tell_ him, will you?" She drew her cloak about her and added, "He'll… he'll shut me inside with the nurses if he finds out that you and I snuck away."

Nethanar propped himself on one knee so that he was eye-to-eye with Ivorsel. Placing a hand solemnly on his heart he said, "I shan't tell him. You have my word."

A smile flew across Ivorsel's lips. "Thank you, Nethanar," she said with a tiny bow. "Now, Come on! I wish to see the sky before the sun rises." Taking the old servant's hand, she flew down the stairs and into the starlit courtyard.

A sea of blues and blacks stretched before the two companions, and, in the east, faint streaks of pale yellow climbed above the horizon. "I cannot see this from my chambers. The nurses never let me draw the curtains," whispered Ivorsel, squeezing Nethanar's hand.

"For that, I am sorry," said Nethanar with a rueful smile. "The work of Varda, I think, should be admired by all persons, and not just those with gray in their hairs." This rendered a giggle out of Ivorsel, and she huddled closer to the old servant.

In the east, the yellow line began to broaden, and out crept the head of the sun in brilliant hues of gold and vermillion. It mesmerized little Ivorsel, making her forget her surroundings temporarily. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Nethanar spoke again.

"You know, there was a time when you could not see the sun rise from the White City," he said softly.

"Really?" squeaked Ivorsel, wide-eyed. "Was it because of the curtains?"

Surprised by her response, Nethanar did not answer right away. He considered this for a moment and then said, "Yes, in a manner of speaking. A curtain of cloud and ash, blotting out the sun in the eastern skies." He paused. "Your father told of you of… of the east, yes?"

Ivorsel tapped her chin. "He told me that Osgiliath is in the east, and Emyn Arnen as well," she said. And then her face became grave. "He also told me that long ago, a bad man lived in the east. A very bad man." Her eyes glistened with awe. "But King Aragorn—my father's father, I mean—helped stop him," she said, an edge of triumph in her voice. She fell silent then, and evaluated all that she had said. Bowing her head, she concluded, "I don't know that much about it, I guess."

Nethanar placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder. "Indeed not," he chuckled. "But be comforted, little one. I shall teach you all there is to know about the east."

Ivorsel considered this for about as long as any five-year-old would. Then, having quite lost her interest (as five-year-olds are wont to do), she declined. "I don't want to be taught. You sound just like my nurses," she said with a yawn.

"Is that so?" said Nethanar quietly.

Ivorsel stuck out her tongue. "Yes. They make me close the curtains and study all day. I don't much like it, and I shouldn't like to do it now."

"That is because you were not permitted outside," explained Nethanar. "If I took you to the Pelennor, you would want to know all about it, wouldn't you?"

Ivorsel's eyes widened. "You can take me to the Pelennor?" she echoed.

"If that is what you wish."

Ivorsel glanced at the sky—already the sun hovered just inches above the horizon, bathing the city in a soft golden light. _How wonderful it must be to see the sunrise above the plains!_ she thought to herself. She squeezed Nethanar's hand and said, "It is what I wish. Take me to the Pelennor."

And so the pair departed, first to the sixth level of the city where the stables were located. There they situated themselves atop a chesnut mare, one of the many horses that was reserved for erranding servants of the court. With a gentle kick to the sides, Nethanar steered the mare out of the stables and into the streets.

Ivorsel watched in silent fascination as the circles of the city whirled by. Shops and market stands lined the streets, all of them boarded and locked while the morning was still young. All the levels were quite empty, save for the gatekeepers (who were initially baffled by the coming of Ivorsel at such an hour, but decided to pay it no mind). Indeed, there were few others who were present to witness the departure of the King's daughter and her companion, as many were still sleeping the early hours away.

They had at last reached the first level. The gatekeepers were again reluctant to let them pass; Nevertheless, they concluded that this must be some order of the King (strange though it may be), and they flung the massive doors of the city open.

At Nethanar's urging, the brown mare steadily began to pick up speed and enter into a full gallop. They darted across the Pelennor, swift as an arrow. Ivorsel could not remember having been on a horse before, and she laughed giddily as they soared across the red-gold plains.

At length Ivorsel decided that she had better return home before her absence was noticed. Indeed, the sun had already risen much higher than she would have liked, and she tugged the robes of Nethanar, signalling him to halt.

"What is it, little lady?"

Ivorsel bowed her head. "We have to go back. Today is Orbelain, and Father is expecting me."

Nethanar gave her a curt nod, and urged the mare forward once more. Again they raced across the fields, a dart alongside the range of the White Mountains….

 _West-ward towards Rohan rise the White Mountains_

 _And at Mindolluin's foot lies the city of the Fountain._

The old nursery-rhyme entered Ivorsel's head quite inexplicably as they flew past the snow-capped mountains. It was then that she realized something was wrong, and she found herself tugging at Nethanar's robes once more. Again they stopped, and again she spoke. "Nethanar, we need to go _home_ ," she urged. "We are going too far west. Father will be angry if I do not return in time!"

Nethanar did not respond right away, and what he did instead was very strange to Ivorsel. Swiftly he drew a dagger from his belt and proceeded to cut a strip of cloth from his cloak. Then he took Ivorsel's hands and thrust them behind her, binding them tightly. "Do not fear, my lady—you will return eventually," he hissed into her ear. "At least, part of you will." He raised the hilt of his dagger and proceeded to strike her senseless.

* * *

Yep, I probably need a beta-reader.

Also: Yes, Ivorsel's mom is from Rhûn. Yes, that means Ivorsel isn't white. A non-white female protagonist in the Tolkien universe, you say? WHOA


	3. By the Grace of the Valar

Thanks for your patience, everyone! As always, please see the endnotes for translations and commentary.

* * *

Ivorsel woke minutes later with a ringing in her ears. Her forehead throbbed from where she had been struck, and her eyes stung with tears. Peeking out from behind the horse's head, she observed that they were still beside the White Mountains, though they had stopped moving the moment she awoke. She sniffled and hugged the horse's neck, wishing that she could disappear.

She jumped when she heard a steely voice behind her ask, "How fare thee, Lady?"

But Ivorsel was too afraid to answer, and she buried her face into the horse's mane and began to weep. Behind her, Nethanar smiled. "You see, my intent was not to wound you, but to warn you. Should you try and contend with me on this journey, _Tithessel,_ you will have my blade to answer to."

"Why are you doing this?" wailed Ivorsel. "I do not want to go with you anymore. I want to go home!"

"Silence, child, or I shall put you out for even longer," growled Nethanar, kicking the horse into motion again. Ivorsel did not dare speak again after that, and silently wished that she had stayed in her bed. This caused her thought to turn to her mother and father, who doubtless by now had noticed their daughter's absence. She choked at the thought and immediately pushed it away, then squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep.

Queen Hendunare had often remarked on how peacefully Ivorsel slept. But as soon as she closed her eyes, she found herself immersed in a sea of nightmares, most of which found her at the mercy of Nethanar's ghoulish blade. And so she began to thrash restlessly in her sleep, and tears trickled down from her closed eyelids. And ever and anon Nethanar would look down upon her, fixing her body with his forbidding gaze.

When next Ivorsel woke, it was to the stench of hay and horsedung, and the harsh whinnying of restless steeds. Blinking owlishly, she examined her surroundings: a rickety stable that had undoubtedly seen better days, and above, the red-gold hues of the setting sun. A lump rose in her throat, and her thought flickered once more to her mother and father. No doubt a search party had been dispatched—yes, Ivorsel was familiar with the search parties, being the elusive sprite that she was. This time, however, there would be no discovery. They would seek for her, yes, but she would not be found—and very soon, she would be mourned along with the rest of her siblings who had passed.

She was shaken from her thoughts when firm hands grasped her sides and deposited her onto the ground. Immediately her knees buckled beneath her, and she latched onto the stirrups of the horse for support. Once she had steadied herself, she met the eyes of Nethanar, who had been watching her expectantly.

"I suppose you wish to know where we are," he said at last. "Have you been here before, my lady?"

Ivorsel peered outside the battered stable. The White Mountains were no longer beside them, and now towered some distance away to the south. Surrounding them now instead was a vast, marshy expanse stretching for miles into a desolate sea of gray. She looked sheepishly at Nethanar and shook her head.

"This is the Wetwang, the great fen just north of Cair Andros. I have been accorded a settlement here."

"A settlement?" echoed Ivorsel. "Here, in the swamp?"

A look of hostility crossed Nethanar's face, but it subsided. "Yes," he replied with some restraint. "It has suited me well, and will serve an even greater purpose tonight." This earned a shudder from poor Ivorsel, and she drew her cloak closer about herself as if it were some means of protection. She winced as Nethanar yanked her by the scruff, leading her from the stable and onward through the twilit bog.

They came at last to a small cottage that had long ago fallen into disrepair. A thick layer of moss coated every inch of the settlement, and tendrils of sedge and cattails snaked their way between through the sodden logs of the wall. The settlement itself reminded little Ivorsel of the tales of Rhosgobel, the village that lay nestled on the eaves of Mirkwood. The nurses had told her that one of the five wizards dwelt there and acted as a caretaker of the forest. Squeezing her eyes shut, she imagined herself standing atop the porch of the kindly wizard—and thus she was allowed a brief escape from the cruel grip of Nethanar.

Her reverie ended abruptly as she found herself being shoved through the doorway, and into the cottage. A fetid odor clung to the air, rumoring of marsh-water and mold. Only two candles flickered in the dim of the house, and Ivorsel found that she had to blink several times before her eyes could adjust. But when at last she could see, she nearly cried out in shock, for she had discovered that they were not alone.

Two figures sat hunched in the far corner of the cottage, both regarding her with hungry, glittering eyes. They were clad in dark cloaks similar to that of hers and Nethanar's, their hoods drawn close about their faces. One immediately rose and threw back its hood, then strode away from her companion and towards Ivorsel.

In the dark, Ivorsel could just make out the features of the woman that towered over her. She was quite tall, and dark-haired—clearly she too hailed from Gondor. She was clad in tattered riding gear, and at her belt dangled a short sword and an item that looked rather like a crude hammer. And as she studied little Ivorsel, she wore the expression of one who is about to indulge in a helping of roast pig.

"Ah, the young heiress comes. _Ki-nâkhi izinda_ , little one." She turned to Nethanar, who still dwelt in the doorway and had since taken to fiddling with his knife. "You did not send word, Nethanar. Why not?"

Nethanar gave her a sour look from his place on the threshold. "I doubt many would be eager to bear a message that told of the little lady's capture, Rivernil," he growled. "Moreover, I had no immediate intention of delivering the child tonight. The opportunity had simply presented itself at the time, and as such, I reacted."

A shadow of fear crept across Rivernil's brow. "They will have sent Rangers to fetch her," she fretted. "They shall track your horse across the plains."

"Then I think it best we depart now," was Nethanar's sharp reply. "Come, Rivernil. We have a long journey ahead."

At this, the hooded figure in the corner (whom Ivorsel had quite forgotten about) rose and strode towards the door, paused before the group, then whisked away into the night air. Nethanar and Rivernil exchanged a quick glance before following suit, tugging along little Ivorsel in their wake.

The three trudged through the muddy pools that led to the stable, a task that had become increasingly more difficult since the sun had set. Every so often Nethanar or Rivernil would mutter an oath if a misstep was made. Thus it was so that the company had found themselves miserable and drenched in bog-water by the time they had reached the stables.

By the time that Nethanar and Rivernil had mounted, the hooded figure had long gone. Swiftly the two kicked their horses into motion, and followed their leader in dogged pursuit.

Ivorsel did not fall asleep this time. Rather, she stared listlessly as her surroundings flashed beside her: the oozing mires, the muddied banks of the Entwash, the starless night overhead—all of which had passed by without a second thought from Ivorsel. This ride was not nearly as long as her previous venture, but she did not care anymore. She was cold and sore, and above all things, tired. She longed for her bed back in Minas Tirith, safe in the high tower of the citadel.

The gruff hands of Nethanar closed around her shoulders, and she was lifted out of the saddle and tossed to the ground once more.

The earth no longer felt soft beneath her limbs. Rather, it was coarse with grass, and as she looked about her, she saw that the swamps of the Wetwang had since faded into barren moorlands. Unbeknownst to her was that the company had since departed the realm of Gondor, and now stood upon the thresholds of the Eastfold of Rohan.

A small bivouac had been established by Nethanar and Rivernil; here they would take rest and refuge for a small while in the realm of the Horse-Lords.

The other companion, however, was nowhere to be seen. Ivorsel suspected that he had gone to keep watch from some secluded place, should any unwelcome visitors happen upon their location. Nethanar and Rivernil, who had since finished preparing the camp, now sat in deep conversation beside a flickering fire. Ivorsel, suddenly aware of how utterly cold she was, huddled gratefully towards the blaze. To her surprise, neither Rivernil nor Nethanar seemed bothered by her presence, and they continued to exchange words in hushed and urgent tones.

Rivernil was the first to speak. "And after we have crossed the Gap of Rohan, what then? Shall we risk blundering into the Northern Kingdom before we are to reach Carn Dûm?"

"It is no blunder," said Nethanar. "We may find safe passage within the Barrow-downs of Cardolan. There are few who would dare travel through that region of Arnor."

"Then I misspoke before," growled Rivernil. "It is a _gamble_ , Nethanar, and one that I am unwilling to take. They say a powerful force dwells near the Barrow-downs, a guardian of growing things. _Iarwain Ben-adar_ he is called, oldest and fatherless. I do not wish to chance an encounter with him."

"What then do you propose?"

There was no hesitation in Rivernil's response. "I say that we head north along the Anduin, and traverse the mountains westward," she announced. "The route is treacherous, yes. But it remains unguarded."

Nethanar folded his arms. "The child will not survive such a journey."

"She will."

The third companion had since joined them, a great hooded tower that loomed before the fire. A pair of hands appeared from the folds of his raiment and cast back his hood, and what Ivorsel saw sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if one of the great kings of Númenor had climbed out of the pages of lore and now stood before her. He was tall and dark-haired, and carried an authority about him such as that of her father, though perhaps more ruthless and less just. His cold eyes flicked first to Nethanar, then to Rivernil, and fell at last upon Ivorsel, who sheepishly hid her face.

" _Ki-tuda ni-yad, nithil,_ " he said sternly, and with inexplicable compliance, she beheld him once more. He was dark and terrible, cold and ancient as one of the King's Men of old. He regarded her for what seemed to be ages, his eyes ever fixed upon her being. Here beneath his gaze she felt shackled, bound by unseen irons. She began to tremble, wishing at once that he would look elsewhere.

"Hear me now, Ivorsel, daughter of Eldarion," he said at last. "Whatever hope you had of returning to Minas Tirith must be forsaken. Know now that you are at the mercy of the will of the Dark Tree, whose roots shall eradicate the fraud-king of Gondor, and all other lesser men.

"My name is Herumor. My company are those who hold fast to the customs of Ar-Pharazȏn the Golden. No elf-friends are we, for elves are deceitful and covetous, and undeserving of the gift of immortality. We believe only in the makings of man, and in Tar-Mairon, Lord of the Earth and King of Men."

 _Mairon._ The name flickered like ashes in the wind, whispering of a great evil of an older time. The fire swelled suddenly, billowing into the air like a pillar of trembling marble. And then, in a single, fleeting moment, an image of a great blazing eye struck Ivorsel's vision and was gone.

Shuddering with terror, she hugged her knees and bowed her head. It seemed that she had wandered into a nightmare so vast and intricate that waking was no longer an option. Images of home flitted across her mind: the tree, the fountain, the tower of Ecthelion; each a welcoming memory that allowed her a brief sense of peace. She stood no longer beside the campfire, and walked now within the glimmering courtyard of Minas Tirith. Like a distant echo, she heard the relieved cries of her mother as her father pulled her into a tight embrace. She lingered in his phantom-arms for a heartbeat or so, before she did as Herumor commanded and forsook her hope.

A shrill cry pierced through the night air, like that of a startled horse. Herumor and the others immediately sprang to their feet, glancing about wildly for the source of the noise. Rivernil, who had already drawn her sword, hissed, "Rangers. They have found us!"

"No," replied Herumor, his expression unreadable. "Not rangers, nor any being of this world." He turned away from the others and whispered, "Another time, perhaps."

What happened next was entirely incomprehensible to Ivorsel, and was later recalled with much difficulty, for she felt as if she had somehow strayed once more into the world of dreams. A great wave of white light seemed to rise above the small camp and towering above the small company. It was as if the sun now stood before them, and they cried and hid their faces. And with a hungry roar, the wave surged forward and engulfed them.

* * *

Notes:

The ending feels rushed. I'd like to fix it, but I'm not quite sure how to.

HOLY PROPER NOUNS, BATMAN! If you wish to indulge in a fun game, I suggest taking a hearty swig each time one of those pesky propers crosses your path.

I kind of spammed this chapter with locations. The Wetwang, White Mountains, Entwash, Cardolan… it's a tad excessive. My apologies.

There's a bit of Adûnaic in this chapter, which is something that will be explained further on in the story. "Ki-nâkhi izinda" means "Welcome," and "Ki-tuda ni-yad, nithil" means "Look at me, girl."

Also, Iarwain Ben-adar is a reference to... *sharp inhale* Tom Bombadil. As some of you may already know, I'm not particularly fond of Bombadil. So really, that cameo was kind of unexpected.

Please help me improve my writing! Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!


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